“Phœbe!” Now Miss Ruth caught at Phœbe’s hand.
“No! Holding hands also comes later.”
“I see.” Miss Ruth leaned back once more.
“Of course, you’re surprised that I love you——”
“But I’m not!”
“You will be when you hear it all,” threatened Phœbe. “And right now you ought to drop your eyes.”
Miss Ruth looked down. It was as if she understood, suddenly, what it all meant. Her face grew grave, and softly pink.
“That’s better,” said Phœbe, admiringly. “So this is when I reach and take your hand.” She took Miss Ruth’s hand gently, and held it between both her own. Once, in a charming picture, she had seen Mr. Henry Walthall do precisely that. “Miss Shepard,” she went on, “the first day I met you, I liked you very much. That was before—Mother—went away. I was unhappy, and you were so good to me. You knew how I felt.”
“Ah, my dear,” breathed Miss Ruth. She leaned forward, holding out the other hand.
“Wait!” pleaded Phœbe. “Because I’m not done. Miss Ruth, day after day, for all these months, I’ve liked you more and more. Now I know that I love you better than I do my relations.”